Endurance
by teaandcharcoalforbreakfast
Summary: The year is 2043. America's reign as king of the mountain is over, but that doesn't mean he himself is. Written for the USUK anthology on Live Journal.


America would be the death of him. England had known it and said it to himself since he first set foot on the continent over 400 years ago, before he even really knew the boy that would become his colony, his enemy, his rival, his ally, his friend, his _everything. _He had first thought he'd end up fighting to the death to keep him, then he thought America might become so large he accidentally (or on purpose) did the job himself. Now he knew better. It was the stress of having America around that would get him in the end. If he were human his ulcers would have ulcers by now. Still, he stayed. England had only been worse off when he hadn't been there because then he had to lay awake at night and just wonder.

Someone had to keep an eye on America anyway to make sure he didn't simply vanish, never to be seen again. Things had been touch and go for years. He hadn't really been stable since the war. Sure, no one wanted to actually call it a _war _because it was fought with money and factories instead of tanks and guns, but wars had always been that way, really. England had been around for a long time and he knew that resources were more important than skill. It was just that America had finally been outdone in both. In a way, he blamed himself. After all, England was where the boy had learned to squander them.

That only made the pain of staying worse. He knew that every time America cried out in pain, clutching his belly and writhing to get away from an attack that wasn't physically there, every time he was violently ill, every time he could scarcely move because the agony so overwhelmed him was his fault. In the beginning he'd sit next to America's bed and hold his hand when he was asleep, begging for forgiveness and saying how sorry he was. He would lie beside him now, clutching America's chest and just praying that deep down the contact made it slightly more bearable.

Some days it seemed like America was almost himself again. He could stand and walk and laugh in that way that was grating and endearing all at once. A few times he'd requested McDonalds and, even though he could scarcely pick something worse to eat while recuperating, England went out to get it without a single thought. Bit by bit, there started being more good days than bad. Life was moving on and America was healing. His people were reorganizing, slowly learning what to do with their new place in the world. England at least remembered and sympathized with that. One hundred years wasn't too much time.

Then one day he woke up and America was just gone. His heart raced and he pressed his hand against America's spot on their bed. He couldn't have disappeared, he just couldn't have. Not after all that work, not after they'd finally figured out something that could maybe, actually help him.

Tears began to flow from his eyes. He rolled onto the other side of the bed, burying his face in America's pillow and taking in as much of his scent as he could, trying to imprint it in his memory before-

The door opened and America entered, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth at an angle and foam at the edge of his lips.

He smiled around it and waved before going to his dresser and putting on his watch. It was then that England noticed his starched shirt, bright tie, and pressed navy trousers. His hair was neat and newly trimmed and his cheeks scraped smooth.

"What are you wearing?" England asked him.

America held up a finger in a silent gesture telling England to wait a moment. He walked across the way to the bathroom and England heard the sound of spitting and water running briefly before America poked his head back in.

"Clothes," He said simply.

"Yes, idiot, I can see that," England sat and rubbed his temples, "But why are you wearing _those _in particular?"

"There's a meeting today a few blocks from here. What kind of a host would I be if I didn't come? Besides, we're going to have to tell them eventually."

England looked up at him. "Are you sure about this?"

"Of course I'm sure. Would I be going if I wasn't?"

"Yes."

"Hah, you're probably right." He smiled brightly, "But there's no turning back now."

"With you there's never any turning back, is there?"

"Never has been."

"Then shall we?"

"Yeah," He slipped his jacket on, "Shower and get dressed. We're doing this."

-0-0-0-

No one really expected America to come to the meeting. He hadn't shown up in the last five years. Either he was running around his country like a headless chicken trying to get things stabilized or sick at home, body betraying him as he threatened to come apart again. It was sad, yes, but it was life. All of the older nations had seen it before and even the younger ones understood. They'd already given him what help they could, convincing their bosses to give aid and make official statements of their support. Now they just had to sit and wait to see if he made it through.

The news said things were getting better. But, of course, that was what people wanted to hear. Even Iran and Cuba didn't want him to die. They had been biding their time, waiting for him to be knocked down a peg, but for him to actually be _gone… _

The meeting hall was just so damn quiet without him.

"Shall we call this meeting to order?" India asked China, the two of them sharing the head of the table where America had once sat.

"I suppose so."

"But England isn't here either."

"I know, but he's not the type to be late. He is most likely with America again, holding his hand while he's asleep and adamantly denying it the moment anyone walks into the room."

India let out a small laugh. "You're probably right. But he hasn't sent any of his brothers in his place."

"You know there's trouble at home for them too," China said, his voice too low for the rest of the world to hear. "They don't like how much time he spends with America."

"They think he's a lost cause, don't they?"

"Don't you?"

India stood, putting off addressing China by addressing the rest of the world instead. "Alright then, on the behalf of China and myself, I hereby call the 2043 World Meeting to order."

The discussion began, all nice and orderly. They were tackling getting more funding to produce the nanobots taking the excess carbon dioxide from the air to increase the rate of reversing global warming along with converting the last of the world to geothermal, solar, and hydro-electric power. So much was getting done, so why did it all feel so pointless?

In the middle of the meeting, while Indonesia was making her presentation on the land she had been able to reclaim thanks to the lowering sea levels, China passed India a note. His Mandarin was a bit rusty and China's writing was actually a bit sloppy, but he managed to make it out.

"There's no use in worrying like that," the note read, "you and I were both trading with Rome when he died. We've seen this before and you know it won't change anything. We must keep our heads up and continue forward. The world can spin on with one less nation on it, no matter how large that nation may be."

India flipped the piece of paper over and scrawled back, "I know. That doesn't make it any easier. I liked America enough in his own right, but I don't know if England would survive his death."

He took a deep breath and slid it back over to China. China read it and looked up at him with a comforting expression. He reached for India's hand under the table. Even if he didn't feel the same kinship to either of them as the Commonwealth did to both, at least he understood.

Then all of a sudden the door slammed open. Everyone jumped at the sudden explosion of noise. For the first time in years, the world got a good look at America. He seemed older than before, with wrinkles around his eyes and in the corners of his mouth. His glasses did little to hide the dark rings around his eyes and his frame was smaller than before. It looked like he had lost both muscle mass and the excess fat that had been building up since the latter half of the 20th century. However, in spite of all of that his suit was new, even if it was a bit out of style, and tailored to fit his new size and his smile was as bright as any they'd ever seen.

England stood proudly beside him, looking happier than he would usually allow himself to appear while in public with America. Their fingers were intertwined, the most affectionate anyone had seen the pair when they thought people were looking even though they all knew they'd been together for almost a century.

For a moment everyone just stared at them, wondering if they were actually seeing what they thought they were seeing. America finally broke the silence by laughing and saying "Sorry I'm late, everyone! Where's my new seat?"

Then everything moved at once. The entire world stood and rushed towards the two of them. India found himself in the midst of the mob, trying to get close just to see if it was really-

"I said," a loud voice near the front called out, "Everyone _back!" _

Again, India was swept along with the rest of the group, this time headed towards the far wall. Once the crowd thinned, India was able to see a very pissed-off Canada standing in front of America and England with his arms spread wide. England looked like he couldn't believe that had just happened, but America just looked vaguely amused. Once he was assured that everyone wasn't going to mob them again, Canada turned to his brother and embraced him. They whispered something to each other that India was too far away to hear. Then Canada guided the two of them to the table. No one commented on the fact that they displaced Cameroon and Cambodia so that America could have England on one side and Canada on the other (when they all sat back down, the two simply took the spots that had been left empty for America and England). However, America remained on his feet, eyes sweeping over the crowd excitedly.

"Since we've got your attention, England and I have an announcement to make." He paused in a way that he probably meant to be dramatic. "England and I are getting married!"

There was dead silence in the room until France raised an eyebrow and said, "What?"

"It's true, I'm afraid," England said, sighing.

"But how- You turned _me _down!"

"America shaves and doesn't smell like moldy cheese."

France was about to say something in retort but Canada gave him the same look he'd used to turn back the crowd and France just stared down at the table instead.

"Anyway," America said, bringing the focus back to himself, "we're entering into a formal marriage alliance. Our governments are drafting up the treaties for making an Anglo-American union as we speak."

"Both of us are retaining most of our sovereignty and our autonomy," England said, "However, we will officially be one state. Because of this, I would like to request that we both remain present at meetings instead of sending one representative."

"We will put it to a vote later during the conference," China said, penciling it into the schedule, "Anything else?"

"No," America said, smiling. "I wanted to talk more, but England told me if I do I'm sleeping on the couch."

"Damn right I did," England said, smirking.

China nodded and directed them to the next order of business. For once, everything felt right again.

-0-0-0-

America stood out on the balcony, fingers tracing the railing. He was tired, almost too tired to think. He wanted to stare up at the stars, but the light pollution made it so that the sky was an endless void above him. If it weren't for the city sounds below, it would have been perfectly fitting for his current train of thought.

It was only when England wrapped his arms around him from behind that he realized the way that the cold had seeped into his skin.

"Come now, love, we don't want you getting sick."

"Yeah. It might really do it this time."

"Don't be like that, America." He leaned forward to place a soft kiss on his cheek. "You're better now. Maybe you're not as you were, but you're stable."

"Yeah."

The stood together for a moment, holding each other in a way that was all too human, until America finally spoke. "Does the empty feeling ever go away?"

"It gets better. Not being alone helps."

"I guess it's a good thing I have you, then."

"I like to think it is." He set his head on America's shoulder.

"What do you think they thought?" America asked, turning his head to see as much of England as possible.

"What does it matter?"

"I just want to know."

"I think most of them were relieved, actually, if their expressions were anything to go by. Even the ones that didn't like you didn't want you to die."

"Maybe this is worse than dying."

England spun him around, gripping his shoulders tightly. "You can't say that, America, you idiot! We've talked about this."

America took a deep breath and looked up to where there should have been stars. "For me it was always about expanding and expanding, getting better and better. Everyone could get land, everyone could get rich, everyone could make a better life for their children than they had for themselves. That's who I was. My entire life, that's what you and then my bosses shaped me to be. I was Mister Bright And Shiny New Future, mister Never-Ending Hope. And now I can't be that guy anymore." He looked back down at England, keeping his gaze level. "So who am I now?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to find out." He lifted his hands to the back of America's neck and lovingly caressed one of the vertebrae with his thumb. "I'll tell you what you are. You're my bloody fiancé. Even if you're not sure what it means to be America anymore, any idiot can figure out what it means to be a husband, right?"

"It means we're partners, just like before but closer."

"Yes, technically, but I don't want to marry you just as diplomacy. Not when we've been lovers for so long."

"E-England-" He stopped himself as soon as he realized the name had slipped out. He couldn't risk making England think about what he was doing. It would make him blush and sputter and stop, and America wouldn't be able to cope if that happened.

"America, even if we were just men, I'd ask you to marry me. And I don't want one of those unions that dissolves. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and then maybe whatever we nations do after that, too."

"Let's quit." America said. "We can run away, somewhere nice and scenic. We'll get a little house, adopt our two and a half kids, raise 'em for twenty years and then maybe, _maybe _come back."

"I'd love that. But you know it's just not possible."

"How about we start something on Mars? The technology is almost ready. How's that? Raise a little colony together..."

"Please don't use colonies as stand-ins for children. That makes this entire situation far too Oedipal for my liking."

"Nah, for him that was supposed to be a curse. I we're not genetically related and even if we were, I can't imagine anything better than this."

England blinked and looked at him hard. "Say that again."

"For him that was supposed to be a curse?"

"No, you dolt! The second part!"

"I-I can't imagine anything better than this?"

"Yes, that. Just that, America." He leaned forward and gave him a tender kiss on the lips. "I think we're going to be alright."

"It'll take time," America replied warily.

"Oh, of course it will. But that hardly matters. It'll all come eventually. Now come on," He took America's hand in his, "After having to babysit you for so long, this bed will feel far too empty without you in it."

America smiled and obediently followed him to bed. He couldn't forget all that he'd lost. He still remembered the sweet, addictive taste of power and money and his tongue felt dry and light without it. At the same time, he couldn't allow himself to forget what he still had either. He gently traced England's spine, feeling him press back into the caress. Maybe just nights like these, when he felt connected and understood and loved, maybe that was enough on its own.


End file.
